


Fingers and Thumbs

by shootingdaggers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Fleur and Ginny sitting in a pub, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 13:06:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shootingdaggers/pseuds/shootingdaggers
Summary: Left to fend for themselves in a small English hamlet, Ginny and Fleur make a few discoveries: pubs are cute, TV is pretty damn good, and the effects of a long saxophone solo can go a long way....





	Fingers and Thumbs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sing-Me-A-Rare Volume 4.  
Song Prompt - WILL YOU? -- HAZEL O'CONNOR -- BREAKING GLASS

Fleur drank coffee. Ginny sipped her tea.

And so it was for the first hour of their exile, sitting at a table in a shabby establishment promising “good times!” when happy hour started in—

Ginny checked the time. Five hours from now. She’d need more than tea by the time it got to frolics and dancing if she was supposed to sit here all afternoon.

Fleur picked up the coffee with the same disdainful glance. Instant granules probably offended her. They hadn’t spoken since Bill and Harry left, reassuring them that it was all well and good, and that they’d be in touch soon, but to go silent for now. Ginny hadn’t realised Fleur would take the meaning literally, and sighed as she looked around the pub they’d been stashed in. 

The sombre mood seemed to catch on with the local residents who brooded over their ales by the bar. Ginny had secured a smaller table away from it, not quite a booth but not quite out in the open. Prying eyes and ears might come around, but with a few charms the wood of the booth disrupted potential spies’ magical means.

Fleur tapped her fingers on the table, setting a slow rhythm to a song playing over the speaker. Must have been about fifteen years old, a clear 80s-sounding saxophone trawling in the background. Ginny huffed through her nose and rested her head back on the seat.

_It’s imperative we do this!”_ Harry’d said, using the word for the first time ever, probably to look big in front of his auror squad who’d scouted the bar behind him.

Ginny hadn’t argued. She’d had enough squabbling at the cottage he’d rented for her and Fleur ‘as a precaution’. Harry’d simply shaken his head when Ginny pointed out there wouldn’t need to be a precaution if it was just an afternoon snatch-and-grab in Egypt, but somehow she didn’t believe Bill was just there to tag along.

“Sighing already.”

Ginny turned to where Fleur observed her with keen blue eyes. “It is only a minor inconvenience. They will be back soon. I know of it.”

Ginny shook her head. “I don’t know why they’d shove us here, in this ugly—” she lowered her voice as a patron wandered by, shooting her a hard look “—_place_ when we have things to do. Like train, and go to work, and prepare for oh, what’s that thing? trivial, what’s it…. Oh yes, the _Quidditch World Cup._”

Fleur muttered something in French that sounded vaguely like a swear and rolled her eyes. “They will not take four months to do whatever it is they are doing.”

That was another issue Ginny had with it all. Harry’d left without so much as an indication of what he was whisking Bill away to do, only that they both needed each other for something and the two loves of their lives should take refuge in a Merlin-forsaken country town where the men had about seven teeth between them.

Ginny didn’t like secrets. She’d had enough of them. Yet trying to get the truth out of Harry Sodding Potter was like getting blood out of the Philosopher’s Stone. But maybe she was overreacting. It had been a nasty surprise, and she should just play it cool. Like it really didn’t matter.

“It’ll all be fine,” said Ginny, mostly to herself.

“_Que sera, sera_.” Fleur matched Ginny’s furrowed brow with a smile. “What will be, will be.”

Ginny had the song in her head as the sun set, as she ordered the dirtiest thing on the pub menu. She sang it when no word came from Harry or Bill or anyone else, she sang it as she tried to sleep until four-am and all through her morning shower, through breakfast, and as she returned to the little pub the next afternoon, more irritated than anything. The same patrons shot her narrow glares. She resisted the urge to charm their pants down. It wasn’t their fault there wasn’t anything to do around here. When Harry had asked her to do this, she’d suggested she stay at Fleur’s house if they were to stick together.

_“It’s too risky,” _he’d said. Creature comforts, Ginny’d countered. But he’d apparated with her to this place, and that was all there was to it.

Taking another cup of watered-down tea to the booth she’d used yesterday, Fleur greeted her with a bright smile that took Ginny off guard.

“I’ve been thinking!” Fleur declared, patting the seat next to her.

“Wonders will never cease.”

Ginny settled next to the woman, her hoodie and boyfriend jeans contrasting with Fleur’s crisp white shirt and pale pinstripes.

"This is a perfect chance for us to get to know one another. We are family now. We are—“

“Whatever you do, do _not_ say sisters.”

Fleur’s brow fell into a frown, but it was brief. Hardly anything could stop her when she was in a good mood. “I want to know you better. You are always so busy, and I do not have many girl friends. ‘Ermione, she is sweet, but always distracted around me. You, you are not so distracted. You make more of an effort. I appreciate women who make an effort.”

“I appreciate women too.” Probably more than the average auror’s girlfriend, come to think of it. Everyone knew about her dalliances with the boys in Hogwarts, not much escaped the dorm rooms after her after-hours experiments with her dorm-mates.

Fleur didn’t seem to catch on to any deeper meaning and grinned. “Bien! But please, do not tell ‘Ermione that we are getting closer. I would not like her to be jealous.”

Ginny chuckled. “I’m sure there’s no chance of that.” In truth, Ginny knew Hermione probably hadn’t forgiven Ron for giving Fleur the oglies all those years ago. If Fleur and Ginny spent some time together, it probably wouldn’t incite any envy from Hermione, more sympathy that they were left alone. 

Something twisted in Ginny’s gut, excited yet unpleasant. Time alone with Fleur would mean Harry still off doing something dangerous _without her._

Time alone with Fleur would also mean… time alone.

With Fleur.

Why did that bother her so much?

“I hope we get to go home soon.” She already smelled of damp, like it seeped into her clothes and refused to come out. “They never said what to expect. They never said _anything._” 

“They must have had their reasons. Of course I would have preferred they tell us a little more of what they intended. It’s the least a wife asks for. Oui?” Fleur might have had the utmost faith in Bill—how she wasn’t going spare with one of her usual tizzies Ginny never knew—but Harry never tended to go a day without _something._ A message, a whisper, an owl. Her stomach twisted, as did her face. Fleur noticed.

“You’re too tense, Gee-nee. Relax.”

It was a simple gesture. The smallest. Ginny had her arms over her chest, scowling at passers-by, and Fleur rested her delicate, pale hand on Ginny’s knee.

Warmth spread through Ginny’s leg, all the way to her neck. Fleur hadn’t noticed any change—she was back to stirring her flat lemonade with a wistful air. But Ginny couldn’t stop staring at her, as though the girl had just climbed out of a lotus flower after a long sleep.

“I suppose—” When her voice cracked, Ginny cleared her throat. _Traitor. _“I suppose we should just trust them. It’s fine. I do trust Harry. He’s a good boyfriend.” For the most part. And she did trust him. For the most part. But the one thing annoying her like a nit at the back of her mind was the question of whether he could trust her.

“Boyfriend?” Without looking at her, Fleur picked up Ginny’s left hand and studied it. “You still have no ring!”

“A ring doesn’t matter.” Ginny withdrew her hand a little too sharply from Fleur’s touch. Rings would only get in the way of a good broom grip, and she wasn’t about to sacrifice that for anything.

“No, jewellery does not matter. It is the symbolism that matters, oui? An exchange of vows before the vows. A promise that you love him and that your heart beats for him.”

If that was the case, Ginny would prefer never to have a ring at all. What sort of cult asked people to wear rings and declare they lived solely for the other person? Fleur placed a finger beneath Ginny’s chin.

“Stop that,” she ordered. “Smile.”

Fleur’s eyes searched hers. Ginny felt her shoulders sag, and her heart speed up as though they were connected to one another, one movement accelerating her pulse. “What if my heart doesn’t beat for him?” she whispered.

A frown crinkled Fleur’s perfect brow. “You don’t love him?” She hadn’t taken her hand from Ginny’s chin. From the corner of her eye, Ginny spotted a few patrons casting glances at them. With a sigh, Ginny peeled herself away.

“I do. I mean, of course I do.” Harry Potter wasn’t difficult to fall in love with, not when he’d saved her life in her first year. But of everything, sometimes he was just plain difficult. “It’s just hard to think that my future lies on the same path I started when I was so young. That I can’t change it now, even if I wanted to. That I can’t change where I want to go, what I want to do, or even who I want to be with. Or that if I do change, there’s this stupid hope everyone will change perfectly compatibly, and at the same rate.”

Her future was so tangled up with Harry’s past, Quidditch was the only thing that was truly hers. Even her family had adopted him as their own. She couldn’t escape from under his feet, couldn’t escape his name. She strived every single day to be someone other than “Ginny Potter”. Nobody ever mentioned her last name.

“Ginny, that is…” Fleur’s voice took on a sad note, though it wasn’t pity. When their eyes met, Ginny saw something more like understanding in them. “The war took choices from many people. Brought together those meant to be. Rushed others together in haste. The dust is still settling. People are waking up to the reality that the world is not the same as it was under—” She paused, wincing at the thought of him, “—_his _influence. We have more choices than we have ever done, now. To theenk!”

Her exaggerated French only slipped out when she was emotional, and Fleur laughed to cover it. Ginny frowned at her. “Are you all right? I haven’t opened Pandora’s Box, have I?”

“Non.” Fleur waved her away. “Allez! Everything is fine. We are all fine, now. Out of danger. That is something to be grateful for.”

As Fleur stood to get them more drinks, Ginny couldn’t help but sense the shift in Fleur’s mood. That perhaps she’d touched on something the woman hadn’t wanted to think about. When Fleur returned, however, it was with a smile she kept on til sunset. 

#

Five days and Ginny’s butterlifes hadn’t stopped fluttering. Every time Fleur swanned into her room in the morning, asking “which dress?” in her underwear and holding up two different versions of the same exquisite thing, Ginny had to take a little ‘extra time’ getting up in the morning.

Even now, as she swirled the spoon around her teacup with naught but her mind—this place was so boring she’d taken to doing small acts of magic to keep herself entertained—it sped up as she watched Fleur at the bar, laughing with a patron. Leaning just slightly…

A crack sounded as the cup tipped, tea leaves making a bid for freedom in the rivers of water that spread over the table. 

“Fuck.” Ginny grabbed the nearest napkin, pressing it down. It did nothing to stop the trails running off the edge. Everyone had turned to stare at her now, the strange woman who sat in the same booth every day. “_Fuck_.” She dabbed with one hand, searched for more tissues with another. It was all under Fleur’s coffee, the spoons, the fork for the snacks. “Fuck, fuckety toss-fuckit _fuck._”

“Such language, Gee-nee.”

Ginny jerked up her head to see Fleur smiling at her—one of her playful ones. She hadn’t mastered the art of sarcasm yet, but she knew to present her face in that certain way to let others know she was teasing.

“Let me help.”

Without waiting for a reply, Fleur descended on the table like an angel, a mound of tissues seemingly appearing from nowhere by her side. It was a gamble to use magic in front of muggles, but if it stopped Ginny’s shoes getting wet she appreciated it.

Almost as much as she appreciated the way Fleur said her name.

“Thank you.” Ginny scrubbed the table with more aplomb, trying and failing to ignore the floral scent Fleur’s hair wafted her direction. “I’m all fingers and thumbs today.”

“Fingers and thumbs?”

Heat rushed to Ginny’s cheeks. “Clumsy as fuck.”

Fleur’s gentle laugh drew several patrons’ eyes towards her: not only because the French didn’t tend to frequent a town this small and far from London, but since Fleur tended to let her Veela side breathe free people were easily enchanted.

It was mostly annoying, really, how quickly Fleur drew people towards her, whether she wanted them or not. Hermione never seemed to be as bothered when Fleur was around, as though she was immune to her charms. Granted, Fleur hadn’t been that charming when she was first introduced—and Ginny hadn’t particularly enjoyed seeing her plant kisses all over Harry’s wet face in his fourth year—but she’d calmed since.

_Ginny_ had calmed. It was difficult not to when she’d started noticing more about the woman; how Fleur had different smiles depending on the person, and the way she puckered her lips when she placed a kiss to loved ones’ foreheads, and all the things a girl dating The Boy Who Lived shouldn’t really notice, because he was _Harry Potter _and she was an idiot.

Once the last leaves and tea mopped nicely, Fleur raised the teacup and wiggled it. “You wish for another?”

“Maybe something stronger.”

A smile graced Fleur’s face. “That’s more like it.”

Ginny coughed down the knot in her throat and hoped the heat would evaporate from her cheeks. She spent the few minutes alone rubbing her forehead. If only Harry hadn’t been away. Ginny wouldn’t have realised—what, exactly?

She’d noticed plenty at Hogwarts. How men were much more open when they liked her, in their own way—bar Potter—and how Ginny found her internal monologues, waxing lyrical about quidditch players’ butts, didn’t necessarily stick strictly to the male players.

How Ginny found eyes the most attractive feature, no matter who they belonged to.

Fleur’s were beautiful.

Fleur was always beautiful.

Even a few mornings ago, when she’d caught Fleur throwing her coffee mug at the fireplace as a green flame, and the image of her shocked brother winked out of existence.

She hadn’t spoken about it. Fleur did what she usually did: brood. And it was frustrating to Ginny that even when she was supposed to look ugly from crying and pouting and scowling, she looked absolutely, positively, lovely.

Ginny didn’t prompt her for a conversation. There wasn’t much to talk about. Excuses for the men had long since run out, and Ginny had half a mind to escape the place and head straight back to London with a thin trail of dust behind her.

But Fleur stayed. And so she stayed. Even though she figured Fleur would have probably jumped at the chance to get her sister-in-law out of the house, they both stayed in the tiny cottage and visited the same pub every single night.

Maybe they were both running from something. Fleur, a life she didn’t want. Ginny—well, she’d no idea what the fuck she wanted any more, just the peace and quiet that came sitting next to the elegant French woman who could kill with one look. She’d grown used to her over the last week, and as they flew into their second together, partner-less, Fleur practically used Ginny as a cushion.

The Veela blew the steam from her coffee one afternoon, resting back against Ginny’s shoulder. “You are twenty-one soon, oui?”

Ginny forced a smile on her face, her own tea untouched. “I am.”

“Party?”

“You mean if we’re ever allowed out of this place?” When Fleur groaned at Ginny’s question, she wafted a hand. “Yes. I want a party. A big, fuck-off party with lots of fireworks and getting really drunk, probably before I tie the knot and pop out loads of speccy kids.”

Fleur’s dramatic gasp drew some attention. “Gee-nee! You have a career. A bright future. I know your mother started early, but you should not already be thinking of babies.”

But that’s all she _could_ think about. Her mother, bless her, wanted nothing more than to hold the grandchildren from her daughter, the seventh (and in Ginny’s opinion, brightest) jewel in the Weasley crown. Especially with Mr Saviour-Of-The-Family Potter.

A thoughtful quiet descended over the table before Fleur frowned. “What is… speccy?”

It started with a snort. Then a snicker. And soon Ginny cackled, her arms around her stomach, with an uncontrollable urge to roll around on the floor, or slip into Fleur’s lap and hold her close. 

#

The little pub was the only entertainment either of the women had. In time, they grew to be quite fond of it. The nearest town was a ten mile hike away, which after walking back in a sudden downpour, they didn’t bother attempting again. No word from their respective partners. No word from family. They could have been cut off from the wizarding world entirely and they’d never have known it.

Ginny wasn’t complaining too badly. The pub had a TV, the apartment had a library of muggle books, and Fleur wasn’t bad company at all.

In fact, ‘not bad company’ was entirely unfair to say. Ginny adored being around her; Fleur was funnier than she’d imagined, and bright. She was also insanely, stupidly beautiful, and currently backlit by the sun streaming through a crack in the frosted window. If it hadn’t been for Fleur, Ginny would have gone mad and stomped off ages ago.

“Merde,” Fleur whispered, the most beautiful voice and word slipping from her lips.

“Merde?” said Ginny, dozily.

Fleur gestured to where the TV displayed a tickertape of red along the bottom, BREAKING NEWS flashing on screen.

_Egypt. Explosion. Unconfirmed Casualties._

“That’s Harry and Bill.”

Ginny whispered it so only Fleur could hear. The word _explosion_ ricocheted in Ginny’s head and she didn’t move a muscle as the newsreader bleated on about how it fit with other strange happenings near the pyramids.

A soft palm enveloped Ginny’s shaking hand. A shiver tingled up Ginny’s spine, across her shoulders and to her neck. Fleur’s long fingers fit so perfectly with hers Ginny had to swallow, and when she raised her head, Fleur was looking directly at her, blue eyes shining with more than the tears that gathered there.

“It will be all right,” she whispered, delicate lilt accenting her words. “You will see.”

But it wouldn’t be all right. Because even if Harry was okay—if he’d survived whatever that was, if he’d escaped, if he’d been the cause—he hadn’t told her a bloody thing about what he was going off to do. He’d left her in the dark and he’d left her alone, stuffed in a small hamlet away from her family, the people she cared about most, all under the guise of ‘for her own good’, worrying in the back of her mind that he might not make it back.

She wasn’t a possession he could spirit away with a lame excuse. She wasn’t an eleven year old child, content with being asked to put up and shut up, with answers promised for later. She wasn’t happy to just go along with whatever The Wizard said.

And _he_ wasn’t Albus Fucking Dumbledore.

#

“They are foolish. _Foolish _men.”

They’d been at their temporary home--whch felt more like a permenant one lately-- for two hours. With no owls and nobody answering their damn floo, there was no way of sending messages to check with their families. When Fleur had finally stopped ranting in French, words spilling together so fast Ginny couldn’t understand anything, she’d started pacing instead. And now she rattled off all the ways in which men were inferior—Bill in particular.

“He is too blasé with his health!” she cried. “Too blasé with his safety. I tended him, I healed him, I loved him. And he goes and tosses me to the side, like a raggy doll. I am worth more than a raggy doll! I am worth more than smoke and mirrors and cloaks and whatever else the English say when they mean _deceit_!”

Although Ginny agreed with absolutely everything coming out of Fleur’s mouth, she’d had too many gins to form words to say so. Or keep up. Fleur’s solution to the news had been to immediately focus her anger into growls and huffs, deep conversation—usually to herself. Ginny’s had been to glower at the headlines and neck as much alcohol as possible.

“You’re going to wear out the carpet if you carry on,” Ginny said. Fleur had traced the same line with her heels fifty times already. “Come sit here.”

The moment Fleur sat down with a sigh, far too close and almost on top of Ginny’s lap, she knew it was a mistake. It was too much, that touch—the softness of Fleur’s skin sending a quiver along Ginny’s stomach and further, oh so further down. Harry used to say she was a volcano when she’d had a few butterbeers after a match; that alcohol unhooked some deep desire inside of her that she didn’t usually let out. Ginny always argued it was because her team always won.

The reality of it was that her skin always felt more sensitive after a drink. She could smell Fleur’s natural perfume all the better. And see the crystal parts of Fleur’s eyes as she looked deep into them.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” Ginny whispered.

Fleur blinked and hiccupped at the same time, gaze trailing Ginny’s face. “Merci.”

The moment Ginny had longed for, dreamed about for days, was here. The women were alone in Ginny’s room. Albeit not the right circumstances, but the opportune moment to do something was here. While she could never just leap across and pin Fleur to the bed, what if it was something Fleur wanted too?

What if it _wasn’t_?

“If you need company,” Ginny said, “you can stay in my room. Calm you down a bit.”

“I will not calm down,” Fleur said indignantly. “Not for hours.”

“What do you usually do when you’re in a temper?”

Fleur thought back. “I rant, and rave, and Bill listens and nods his head.” When Ginny laughed, Fleur nudged her. “What do _you _do?”

Ginny’s face flushed before she could respond. “I—let off steam. In a manner of speaking.” At Fleur’s lingering look, Ginny sighed. “Truth be told I usually ride Harry until he blacks out.”

Fleur’s laugh barked into the quiet of the room. They descended into giggles, all thoughts of the smoking scenes on television lost in the moments between them. “Gee-nee!” She laughed again, which sent the same shiver through Ginny’s bones, though she appeared to sober slightly. “What do you need to do to forget some—bad news?”

She meant Egypt. And Ginny knew her answer instantly. “I ride him even harder.”

Ginny would do anything if it meant keeping Fleur’s face alight with humour, her beautiful laugh ringing into the stifling quiet. Fleur took a while to stop her laughter this time, wiping tears from her eyes. “Pity Harry is not here, non? He would be having the time of his life!” Ever so delicately, so softly even Ginny didn’t realise at first, Fleur’s hand came to rest on her knee. “I feel as I should be jealous of him.”

Ginny’s mouth was over Fleur’s before she knew what the fuck was happening. The blonde woman froze, gasp breathing against Ginny’s lips. _Fuck._ The women pulled away like a bolt shot through them, Ginny’s face heating.

“Oh, Merlin—fuck, I’m sorry.” It was too much. All too much. It had been such a long time coming and now she had no idea what to do with it. Embarrassed, Ginny wiped her hands on her jeans. “Forget I did that. Please. It’s stress.” All words she didn’t want to ever, ever fucking say in her life. She wanted to scream that she wanted Fleur, that she couldn’t stop thinking of Fleur. And the devil on her shoulder crept out as she pressed her fingers onto Fleur’s thigh. “You can politely say good night—you can just say ‘good-night’ and we’ll never…”

Fleur kissed her again and her mouth, oh _Merlin_ her mouth set off fires inside Ginny’s stomach. 

“I do not wish to be unfaithful…” Fleur murmured but her tongue lapped against Ginny’s soon after, silencing any protest Ginny thought of—which were very few, considering. All the better in the slipping off of clothes, exploring hands and mouths, the tentative touch of the blonde mixed with the deliberate movements of the redhead.

“You are—how do you know how to do this?” Fleur’s breaths came faster, question unanswered. Ginny didn’t have to tell her experience—it was in every flick of her tongue, movement of her fingers, caress of Fleur’s soft skin. Colour of fire and ice intermingled as they kissed, hair cascading across the sheets. One thing she gathered quickly was Fleur being a quick learner; after a few minutes of politeness the Veela barely needed an invitation to take her initiative, pinning Ginny to the bed, taking her first taste, fingers sliding over and into places they’d never slid before.

It took hours, yet it was minutes in Ginny’s mind. One pleasure ran into another until, with an intensity she’d never felt before--not with Harry, not with anyone— Ginny hitched her breath. Held it tight, back arched and head pushing into the cushions as her ending spiralled through her. Fleur’s came soon after, a jumble of French curses sputtered into the humid air.

It was bliss, as the sun rose. Fleur wrapped around her body, sheets haphazardly draped over them. If anyone walked in now Ginny would want them to paint it; immortalise it. Hang _that_ one up in the bedroom and see what their painted selves got up to.

But as the sun rose, its light was like an unwelcome visitor. Noise started around them, the light’s call of morning telling lovers to _Get up, get up, it’s time to face the blinding truth of what you’ve done in daylight!_

Ginny didn't wake Fleur. Didn’t want to ruin it with stupid, maudlin thoughts. Wanted to keep Fleur there, for as long as possible without the prospect of ‘reality’ to face.

So when the gentle _tap tap tap_ of the owl at the window, letter clutched tightly at its beak, roused her from drowsing dreams, Ginny later forgave herself for hurling a pillow and startling it from its perch. 

#

They sat in the pub later that night, waiting their beau’s return as a jazz band played in the corner.

‘Happy Hour’ it was not.

According to Harry’s letter his mission had all been a huge success, whatever ‘it all’ was. The explosion wasn’t anything to do with things going wrong, so not to worry. He’d be back that night, Bill alongside, and they could go back to normal. So sorry, Ginny. Please forgive how long it took, Ginny.

Fleur sat opposite, nursing a mojito through a straw. Her eyes kept glancing to the main pub doors, like a prisoner waiting for the gallows. They hadn’t spoken about anything, not truly. Ginny could imagine the conversation now. Fleur would look at her with wet, beautiful eyes and whisper; “We cannot do it. As much as I despite what he has done, I love him so. I cannot walk away without giving my marriage a chance.”

And Ginny wouldn’t be able to blame her at all. She’d done something unspeakable against her brother; allowed lust and emotion to lure her into betraying him, betraying a friend by being with her. Fleur would break down. She’d tell him. And as much as Ginny realised a future with Fleur could be wonderful, a future without Bill was unthinkable.

She’d already lost one brother. She didn’t wish to lose another.

It was a charm Hermione had taught her, though there was nothing charming about it. She laid her wand on the table, in front of everyone’s sight should they care about a woman’s long stick. Fleur’s eyes widened.

“Gee-nee! Put that away!” Fleur hissed, but Ginny put her hand over it to stop Fleur ferreting it onto her lap.

“You’re not going to leave him.” Ginny said it plainly, possibly too icily, for Fleur stalled. They locked eyes. “And I’m not going to lose him.”

To her credit, Fleur nodded her understanding once, small. Expression stone. Ginny loved that about her—the fact she didn’t have to explain what she meant. Their time together cemented things beyond words

“And Harry?”

Ginny hadn’t thought about that. Maybe she’d come to forgive him in time, but it’d be a good start if he could view her as more than the young girl he’d saved in the Chamber, realise she didn’t need protecting as much as he did.

“He will never know. But he’s a choice I’m not sure I’m going to make, yet.”

Fleur drew in a breath, staring at the wand in Ginny’s grip. “You mean to make me forget.”

“I do.”

“And do I have a choice?”

Ginny licked her lips. “Hermione’s parents never—”

“They were _Muggles,_ Ginny. She did it for their own good, in a time of war. This is not a time of war. This was an infidelity.”

“And that’s all it was.” Ginny nodded as though to convince herself. “A mistake.”

“Gee-nee.” Fleur set her with a look dripping with emotion. Ginny didn’t want to hear the words, to hear her say she needed Bill, chose him over her, because of course she did. And Ginny most definitely didn’t need to hear that Fleur chose _her._ “Give me some time, please. This is—I do not wish to forget our bond. It will be changed if you do this.”

“But you won’t know it.”

“_You_ will.”

“That’s something I can bear. I whack the shit out of people on brooms for a living, remember? I’ll work through it.” So blasé. So practiced. Nothing like the battle raging inside of her. “It has to be tonight. Before Bill comes back.”

Fleur raised her chin as the jazz band thanked the crowd for their applause, preparing to start up again with ‘an oldie but a goodie’. “One song,” said Fleur. “Let me have one song before I decide.”

A condition Ginny accepted with a nod. Fleur sipped her mojito once and excused herself to the bathroom, hands trembling by her side. Ginny couldn’t stand to sit alone and so she stood, wandering over to where people swayed along.

Would Fleur leave? Would she simply stand and whisper a polite goodnight, leaving Ginny watch locals dance to bad singers? Ginny closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable goodnight. Prepared herself for the thud of her heart sinking into her stomach as Fleur decided to stay with Bill, tell him the truth. Fleur could have already fled the pub by now, wrought with guilt.

Ginny stared at the couples smiling together on the tiny dancefloor. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as the jazz band started up a saxophone solo that could probably make a cat purr.

“One song,” Fleur whispered, “and one dance.”

Ginny whirled to where Fleur stood, hand outstretched for her to take. As the saxophone trilled its mournful tune across the hallway, Ginny enveloped Fleur in her arms. Their sway was gentle at first—tentative, like the first few touches that previous night. Fleur’s hands found Ginny’s waist first, her eyes never leaving Ginny’s face. She was close enough to count every freckle if she wanted but the gaze was so intense that Ginny felt her insides squirm.

It was better that they did this. That she give Ginny one last moment to remember; one perfect moment where she could be in Fleur’s arms, commit her to memory, and then—all Fleur’d recall would be the days running one into the other, and girly gossip of their first days in the booths getting to know one each other more. Moaning about boyfriends, and babies, and the future. Nothing else. Nothing like this.

As the music rippled over her skin, she rested her head on Fleur’s shoulder, smelling the sweet aroma of sweet peas and lavender. She knew Fleur had already decided. Knew she’d never be able to live with herself otherwise, no matter the love and emotion she carried.

But after tonight, Ginny would carry it for the both of them, blazing and proud, without regrets.

#

The music in the club was so loud Fleur had to cover her ears.

There were several faces she knew but more she barely recognised, even then only from the _Prophet._ Most were Quidditch players, such was Ginny’s social circle. Four hours in and Ginny’s 21st party was in full swing—Fleur kept alert for the family. The red heads of the Weasley clan were visible from fifty feet no matter how dark and strobe-like inside, and she liked to keep track in case she needed saving. Ginny had insisted on a Muggle club, possibly because she liked to play with fire. There’d already been several strange looks from passing Muggles, sparks from wands, floating drinks, and several Muggle men stared at her until she was saved from terrible flirting by Ron, who looked disgusted by the whole thing.

Miracle of miracles, Hermione Granger was drunk. She danced like a flailing mongoose alongside Luna and Ginny, who seemed determined to drink her weight in Goldschlager. Fleur couldn’t help but look at her most of all. She was a vision in red, hair—cut shorter and curled, as though she’d gone through some early-20s crisis—bobbing in time with her movements.

For some reason Fleur hadn’t decided to join them. Hadn’t wanted to, really, until she was ushered up to the group of them by a strikingly pretty Angelina Johnson.

“Parties are for dancing!” she declared, and despite Fleur’s protests she couldn’t deny her legs longed to dance. Fleur hadn’t felt the urge to sway, or move, or do anything resembling ‘boogying’, but the moment she joined the girls they surrounded her with cries of glee.

She stayed close to Ginny, mostly because Luna’s flailing arms were dangerous and Hermione had started to whip her hair back and forth at various moments. It was all swirling high, drum beats and synthetic tones and nothing like the music she listened to, until…

“I love this song!” Fleur declared, without knowing why. The saxophone rippled through her, tinkling like a lost memory. Sadness flickered in Ginny’s eyes and the girl’s expression turned sour, the same time a vision of a pub’s booth and worries exchanged came back into her mind. Ginny, and the rest of her life. Ginny, wondering if this was all there was. Whether she could change.

Fleur took her hand and squeezed. “Don’t forget, Ginny!” Something in the other girl’s eyes screamed at her, shone with words unspoken. But the redhead smiled and squeezed back. “You can do whatever you want! The path you are on is never inevitable. Don’t forget it.”

“Oh, I won’t ever forget.” Ginny had to shout over the saxophone playing, but a tiny smile placed on her face as the song asked the question shining in Ginny's eyes. _“Will you?”_


End file.
